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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28770546">Guide Me Home</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Languidly/pseuds/Languidly'>Languidly</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Transformers - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Amalgamated Universe, M/M, Sticky Sexual Interfacing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 06:01:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,577</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28770546</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Languidly/pseuds/Languidly</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“The Well?!” he finally manages to squeeze from a suddenly too-tight intake. “Are you implying- how dare you- that I have been bested- that I have fallen- ”</p>
<p>Rodimus peers at him, then moves to face him fully. He looks a little awkward. “Uh. Not implying anything here. Telling, more like. Yes. Though I have to admit that ‘bested’ and ‘fallen’ is a bit more dramatic than the usual rigmarole I get. Most of them just swear a lot and then start crying. You know how it is.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Megatron/Rodimus | Rodimus Prime</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>157</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Guide Me Home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Driving for hours through a dark wintry evening provided the inspiration for this one. </p>
<p>Also, I've been drowning in another fandom for the last 2 weeks, so I may or may not have forgotten how to write TFs.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The last thing Megatron remembers seeing is the look of utter sorrow in Optimus’ deep blue optics as the axe is swung down viciously towards his helm. </p>
<p>Then there is only static and darkness, followed by an almost violent yanking on Megatron’s core - as though his very spark is being reeled out of his frame with frightening and magnetic speed, and plunged into ice.</p>
<p>When Megatron onlines again, he is standing in a wide, empty place.</p>
<p>There is no one else around as far as he can perceive. The gloom stretches outwards, all-encompassing and unforgiving. Far in the distance, there are flashes of light, but they disappear as quickly as they come. He is all alone, without his enemy, his army or any sense of where he is and how he has come to be here.</p>
<p>A cold lump lodges in his throat suddenly, as though he’s swallowed a frozen cube in its entirety. He turns in a circle slowly, deliberately, again, but the darkness remains the same. He could be standing on the edge of a precipice for all he knows. Time seems to lag here, his chronometer spinning and throwing back a series of illegible half numbers.</p>
<p>“Hey!” a voice, too close to him - where/when/how did it get here? - is full of friendly curiosity. “Sorry, sorry, I was running a little late. Did you wait long?”</p>
<p>Megatron reacts with everything he knows; his fusion cannon is firing up as he spins around, his fists clenched and raising, his stance lowering wide, ready to stand his ground. Then the cannon stops powering up abruptly, sputtering. He doesn’t even have time to be annoyed before he’s pointing it towards the speaker anyway. He knows he looks threatening even with a malfunctioning weapon.</p>
<p>“Whoa!” and now he can see that the voice belongs to a lithe, blindingly red mech - how did Megatron not see him coming for miles, he’s pretty much impossible to miss - whose bright yellow hands are held up in mock surrender. “Waited <i>really</i> long huh?” There’s a twinkle in shining blue optics as the mech gestures to the fusion cannon, then shrugs and drops his hands. “Yea, that kinda stuff doesn’t really work here.”</p>
<p>“Where is <i>here</i>?” Megatron demands, looming menacingly. “I must return to the battle at once!”</p>
<p>The mech stares at him. </p>
<p>Scratches the delicate yellow finials on his helm. </p>
<p>There is a long moment of silence between them.</p>
<p>“Right!” the mech says cheerfully, completely ignoring what Megatron has just said. “If you’ll just come with me, we can be on our way? You won’t be getting anywhere without the Lost Light.” He steps away, somehow confident that Megatron will follow, turning his back to him as easily as if Megatron isn’t standing there, confused rage coursing through every line. </p>
<p>“Wait,” he growls, reaching out to grab the edge of one jaunty yellow spoiler. “I order you to tell me where we are. What is your designation? Which way is the battle?”</p>
<p>His hand passes right through. </p>
<p>It effectively halts the furious spiraling of probability trees in his processor, stalling every strategic protocol attempting to reroute their goal in the absence of familiar visual and audio input.</p>
<p>The mech spins around and notices Megatron’s aghast expression as he stares at his outstretched hand. He laughs, a little sheepishly. “Oh! Yea, that doesn’t work the same way here either. I have to think it before it becomes possible.” The smile sharpens into a grin. “Why, see something you want to touch?”</p>
<p>Megatron drops his hand back to his side and resists the urge to shake the mech by the shoulders - only a fool would try the same thing twice and expect a different result, but he’s barely able to control the pitch of his vocalizer anymore as he thunders, “Designation and location <i>now</i>, or I will end you!”</p>
<p>The grin morphs into a disbelieving cluck. “Yea buddy, I’d like to see you try.” He looks Megatron up and down huffily, arms crossing. “But since you can’t seem to move those giant pedes without getting answers, I’ll share, though I’m really not supposed to. Give you too much information and all that, I mean. Not that you’ll remember any of it though, so I guess Rung won’t make me stand in the naughty corner for too long. I’m Rodimus, and I’m here to take you back to the Well.”</p>
<p>There’s a faint crackle and an encroaching systems failure queueing just behind the busy processing of everything Megatron has just heard, but all that happens is that his mouth falls open against his will and nothing comes out. Rodimus takes the opportunity to get behind Megatron and push him in the direction of...of…</p>
<p>A large gray ship stands in the darkness, its outline becoming clearer with every passing nanoklik. It has several large, long red quills sticking out the top of it and a row of square blue lights along its nose, brightening even as Megatron regards the vessel incredulously. He is almost dead certain this ship wasn’t there when he had first come online in this place. But then again, his sensors hadn’t picked Rodimus up either, not until the mech was practically on top of him.</p>
<p>“The Well?!” he finally manages to squeeze from a suddenly too-tight intake. “Are you implying- how dare you- that I have been bested- that I have fallen- ”</p>
<p>Rodimus peers at him, then moves to face him fully. He looks a little awkward. “Uh. Not implying anything here. Telling, more like. Yes. Though I have to admit that ‘bested’ and ‘fallen’ is a bit more dramatic than the usual rigmarole I get. Most of them just swear a lot and then start crying. You know how it is.”</p>
<p>“I can’t be here!” Megatron bellows. “I have a war to get back to, a planet to free from the shackles of injustice and systemic discrimination!”</p>
<p>Rodimus looks impressed. “That was grand, mech. Very grand. I’m guessing you’re one of those fancy types that write poetry and philosophy in your spare time?”</p>
<p>He does reach out then. He wants to grip Rodimus with painful force, crush him for his insolence, wrap his hands around those slim neck cables and squeeze. His hands pass right through once again. Rodimus hasn’t moved, but now the sympathetic look has been replaced with a tinge of impatience.</p>
<p>“Look, Megs - hope I got the name right, only had time for one glance at the roster before I zipped over here - I get it. You’re in shock. You don’t want to be permanently offlined. Well, I can’t do anything about that. I’m just here to pick you up and give you a ride. If you want to stand here shouting into space instead, that’s totally up to you.” He looks shifty all of a sudden, glancing at Megatron out of the corner of a bright blue optic. “Okay, not really, Rung will kill me if I leave another spark fumbling around in the dark, but I’m not gonna...you know. Stay here all night watching you try to take a swing at me. As funny as that is, I really have other places I need to be. So are you getting on board my ship, or not?”</p>
<p>A warm yellow light is spilling through the gloom; it’s the faintest glow from a gangway that is unfolding at an excruciatingly slow pace from the ship. The sight of it calls to Megatron somehow, sends a wave of sparkache and longing through him. </p>
<p>It reminds him of curling up in small corners with a flickering lamp overhead, of urgent hope and glyphs spilling from his fingers onto a datapad in the dark of the mines. A bewildering sense of comfort swells up from somewhere forgotten, deep inside.</p>
<p>Before he can question it he is stumbling along behind Rodimus, who has started walking again, one hand cocked on his hip. A rather shapely red hip, Megatron notices belatedly. For want of anything else to focus on besides the fact that his processor has either crashed and sent him into a dream of random snippets of code (none of which would actually account for any of what he’s seeing and hearing) or that he is, as he has been told, irretrievably <i>dead</i>, he takes a closer look at Rodimus. </p>
<p>The mech is well-formed. He has a wide chest, an exquisitely narrow waist, and the yellow spoiler that Megatron had tried to grab earlier is both eye-catching and alluring against his bright red paint. His finials are tapered fine points on an elegant helm, and the curves of his thighs are appealingly smooth. </p>
<p>It takes another moment for Megatron to realize that Rodimus is - infuriatingly - aware of his scrutiny. He’s swinging his hips, and then he turns at the top of the gangway with a wink and a flourish. </p>
<p>“Welcome to the Lost Light!”</p>
<p>Megatron’s limbs are starting to feel numb. It seems to take all of his concentration to heavily lift his feet, one after the other, and then he steps over the ledge and into the ship proper.</p>
<p>Heat blazes through Megatron’s frame. It instantly dispels the cold and the insensate feeling permeating all of his joints and extremities. Rodimus moves past him, possibly even partway <i>through</i> him, and heads down a long corridor with a muttered “Finally!”</p>
<p>He doesn’t know what else to do besides follow. Threats have not worked, and Megatron has never met a mech he cannot touch. That second part negates most if not all of the tactics that Megatron has ever had at his disposal to obtain answers and obedience. He has not <i>cajoled</i> anyone in the entirety of his functioning, let alone had to dance around with the usual social niceties in the last million years - not that there had been plenty of that in the mines to begin with. </p>
<p>“You can’t prove I’m offlined,” is what ends up leaving his vocalizer instead. His voice sounds rough to his own audials, and uncharacteristically uncertain. “This could be a virus, planted in my brain module by those who seek to undermine me. As I speak, I could be bound and trapped, imprisoned in my mind until such time as my oppressors see fit to release me for bargaining or execution.”</p>
<p>Rodimus throws a pitying look over his shoulder. “Uh huh. Sure, let’s go with that. Any other questions while this amazing virus works you over really, really well?”</p>
<p>They’ve arrived at the bridge of the ship now. There is no one else around except for them. It had looked like a reasonably large ship from the outside, large enough that it wouldn’t make sense for a single mech to be piloting it. Rodimus flings himself down into the command chair, legs askew. He murmurs something under a vent, and the consoles light up. The engines roar to life. </p>
<p>“How are you doing that?” Megatron snaps. “What technology is this?” He’s never seen such an advanced ship, requiring only a single crew for its size and apparently not even anything manual to start. </p>
<p>Rodimus shoots him a bemused look. “I thought I told you, Megs. I have to think it for it to be possible. It’s one of the perks of the job.”</p>
<p>His frustration is back. “That’s impossible.” </p>
<p>“Okay,” Rodimus drawls agreeably. “If you say so.”</p>
<p>The ship is suddenly moving. It’s so dark outside. They’re picking up speed, and Megatron can’t even tell if they’re in the air above a planet or far out in space. There’s only a few pinpricks of dazzling light, rushing past them and vanishing back into the void as soon as they appear. </p>
<p>He looks at Rodimus, perched casually on the chair, examining the exhaust pipes on one arm. “Who <i>are</i> you?” he demands again, helplessly. </p>
<p>The bright blue optics slide to him. Considering him.</p>
<p>“I guess you’d call me an emissary of Primus,” Rodimus says eventually. His focus goes back to the exhaust pipes, on his other arm this time.</p>
<p>Megatron can’t help the sneer that twists his faceplates. “Like Prime, you mean?”</p>
<p>Rodimus lights up. “Well...yea, sort of?” He swings his legs down and generously waves Megatron to the seat beside him. “But I take care of <i>this</i> side of things. I guess the Prime from where you were took care of things there?”</p>
<p>He snorts bitterly. “Prime is weak. He fights for a prejudiced and antiquated way of life. He doesn’t hold the preservation of Cybertron and of all of our kind as his foremost priority. What gives him the right to stand at the top, to rally mechs to his corrupted will?”</p>
<p>Rodimus’ glossa sticks out between his lips thoughtfully. It’s more distracting than Megatron will admit. “What gives him the right? Uh, I’m going to go out on a limb here and say the Matrix?”</p>
<p>“The Matrix is a repository of the iniquitous lineage of Primes!” Megatron roars. “It is not a mandate for ruling!”</p>
<p>His outburst is greeted with a doubtful stare. As Megatron continues to seethe, Rodimus shrugs again and allows, “I suppose the era could have changed. Doesn’t seem like that long since I picked someone up from your side, but hey, time passes a little differently over here, so what do I know.”</p>
<p>Silence falls between them again. The pinpricks of light continue to flash by.</p>
<p>It’s Megatron who caves first. “What happens at the Wel- this place we’re going?” he asks flatly, reluctantly taking the seat that Rodimus offered earlier. His processor still refuses to accept the notion that he has been offlined and that this could be the end of all things, but there is no harm in gaining more information over whatever illusion he has been placed in. All the better to break through this insidious coding later.</p>
<p>Rodimus hums noncommittally. “You get to meet Rung? He likes to talk a little - or a lot - to the ones passing through. Try to avoid the sneaky dark miasma hovering around - Rung’s got a brother who likes to swipe whatever spark he can get his hands on and remake them. Not that I’ve spoken to the guy before, but from what I’ve heard he seems a little chaotic.”</p>
<p>The sentences are meandering and incensing. Megatron can’t make head or tail out of what Rodimus is so blithely saying, as though he’s telling a story to someone who should already know the plot and all the characters. But Megatron <i>doesn’t</i>. In this vacuum of unending darkness where the laws of matter and physics don’t apply, he recognizes nothing.</p>
<p>He does, however, latch on to the one thing that seems interesting. “Remake a spark? </p>
<p>Rodimus shoots him a thoughtful glance. “Depends on if you’ve unfinished business, maybe. Regrets don’t count, though. And you don’t really get to choose who you go back as, either. Could be as someone completely crazy.”</p>
<p>The <i>how-what-why-where</i> of what is going on sounds more and more unlikely each time Rodimus opens his mouth. And there’s something Megatron keeps hearing but forgetting about…</p>
<p>“Who’s Rung?”</p>
<p>Rodimus grins at him. “I guess you’d call him Primus.”</p>
<p>Megatron rolls his optics so hard that they feel like they’re falling out of his helm. “Primus is merely the term we use for the energy contained at the heart of Cybertron, channeled through Vector Sigma. It is not a single mech, and certainly not one who likes to <i>chat</i>!”</p>
<p>Rodimus cocks his helm at him, looking mildly affronted. Then he gives a rueful chuckle. “Are you going to disagree with everything I say? I think I’ve shown you that things work differently here.”</p>
<p>Megatron scowls at him. “You’ve shown me nothing. Everything you say sounds ridiculous.” <i>You</i> are ridiculous, he wants to add, and something in his faceplates must have given him away even without the words leaving his vocalizer because Rodimus makes a face at him and then hauls himself up from his absurd position in the command chair. But he doesn’t walk away. Instead, he crosses the three steps that divide them and then, without warning, drops himself down onto Megatron’s lap.</p>
<p>The impropriety of it stuns Megatron for a long moment, before he growls and shoots to his feet, uncaring of tumbling Rodimus to the ground. Except...he can’t move.</p>
<p>His pedes stay rooted to the ground, his arms to the sides of the chair. His frame is locked tight as if he has been completely and utterly bound, though his optics and vocalizer are still online. Rodimus smirks up at him, one arm draping artfully around the back of Megatron’s neck. Megatron is so outraged that it takes him almost a klik to realize what’s different.</p>
<p>Rodimus has weight now. His armor is warm and thrumming. He smells welcomingly sweet. </p>
<p>They’re <i>touching</i>.</p>
<p>“See?” Rodimus taps Megatron’s nose lightly with one elegant finger. “I think it, it works. Get it? Now follow my logic here, since I’m clearly the brains of the two of us. I’ve proven that I control this reality by letting you perceive me physically, when you couldn’t before. I got this big ship moving with just my mind. I’ve immobilized you without so much as a magnet in sight. Now, by extension, why would anything else I’ve told you be untrue? It’s not like I get anything out of leading you astray.”</p>
<p>Megatron is still locked into place. Without being able to move his head, all he can do is glare as far down as possible. He manages to focus it on one of the bright yellow finials that seems to be mocking him, turning this way and that as Rodimus studies him.</p>
<p>“If I let you move, will you promise not to misbehave?”</p>
<p>Megatron clenches his dentae. Alarmingly, through the static of his rage, another long-forgotten sensation is coming through.</p>
<p>It has been millennia since Megatron has allowed another mech this kind of proximity. He’s already noticed how attractive Rodimus is, for all the flippant nonsense the other mech has been spouting. Everything about this odd environment that he has suddenly found himself in feels distant and fuzzy in his processor, and now only the very solid warmth of Rodimus making himself comfortable on Megatron’s lap and the twist of that playfully arrogant mouth feel real. </p>
<p>A coiling ardor - of arousal or anger, Megatron doesn’t know - flashes through his circuits. And grows. Heat spills into his frame, concentrating in the areas where their plating comes into contact.</p>
<p>Of course Rodimus notices. The sparkling pale blue optics widen, and the flirting fingers abruptly stop waving in front of Megatron’s face. </p>
<p>Megatron expects Rodimus to laugh again, to mock and skirt around as he’s been doing. Instead, a rather flustered expression crosses Rodimus’ face. He shifts back and forth - not helping the proximity situation <i>one</i> bit - and then in a painfully obvious attempt not to be awkward, awkwardly slides off Megatron’s lap and minces two steps away. The yellow finials twitch.</p>
<p>“I definitely can’t do that,” he waves vaguely in Megatron’s direction, though it sounds oddly more like he’s talking to himself. </p>
<p>Even through his own rage at Rodimus’ teasing and the entire surreal, unexplainable situation, Megatron can’t help the instant, unexpected feeling of insult. It’s been a long time since anyone has, well. Declined him. </p>
<p>In the pits of gladiatorial combat and throughout the war, Megatron has always been powerful, and power has always drawn him an unending stream of admirers. It means that even though he’s never indulged the hungry glances that many in the arena and then in his army had thrown his way, Megatron had been more than aware of the nature of his appeal. Even the barest hint of his favor had had most of those around him snapping to attention. </p>
<p>So it is with a most uncharacteristic offence that he grits his dentae and snaps, “<i>Why not</i>?”  </p>
<p>He’s incandescently mortified the moment the words leave his vocalizer. It’s been an equally long time since he’s thought - let alone <i>asked</i> - such a degrading question. As if he’s the one desperate for approval, for acquiescence, when he is Megatron, Leader of the Decepticons, untouchable and cold and in need of nothing but dedication to the cause. </p>
<p>It’s both blessing and curse that Rodimus answers without seeming to take heed of Megatron’s raging internal conflict. “Well…” he offers distractedly, “You’re technically under my care. I’m carrying out an official duty right now, ferrying you. Also, you’re kinda not long for this world.” None of those statements make any sense, but that’s nothing new in this conversation. Rodimus is chewing on his lip and actually appearing to be considering the question in greater depth. “You’re clearly upset, confused,” he continues, ticking off his points on those yellow fingers. “Plus,” now he looks directly at Megatron, and there’s an undercurrent of something...dark, something self-deprecating, under the next words: “You probably don’t even think I’m real.”</p>
<p>Those are all very good reasons, but Megatron has never let a good reason stop him from doing what he wanted before. <i>If</i> he wanted. Which he <i>doesn’t</i>. </p>
<p>Megatron’s optics flicker across Rodimus’ bright and sinuous frame again. </p>
<p>He <i>doesn’t</i>. That impertinent, nonsensical know-it-all will be informed in no uncertain terms.</p>
<p>Instead, what comes out of his vocalizer is an impatient, “Why does any of that matter?”</p>
<p>Rodimus’ jaw drops. “Say what?” He bounds right back into Megatron’s space, standing over him, so near that Megatron can feel the warmth emanating off that blinding red and yellow armor. “Ethical dilemmas and potentially delusional perceptions don’t matter for- for- ” he’s squeaking a little as he gestures between them, a little crudely but effectively, before he demands, “Has your processor been displaced along with your corporeal self?”</p>
<p>Oh for Pit’s sake. Megatron glares at him. “One, I am most certainly not ‘under your care’,” he retorts icily. “I’m certainly not feeling very protected while you’ve disabled my hydraulics with whatever cheap tricks you’ve employed. Two, I don’t know what ‘official duty’ you think you’re serving, but I followed you on board this ship of my own volition since you gave me a choice, if you recall. If you think you’re even remotely able to coerce <i>me</i> into anything, then <i>you</i> are the one who is delusional. Three, if we take what you’ve said previously about you telling the truth, then I have already been offlined, and so it doesn’t matter...how long I’ll be here.”</p>
<p>Rodimus is watching him intently. The illumination in his optics has darkened to a rather mesmerizing shade of blue. “What about the, uh, confused and upset and me-not-being-real part?”</p>
<p>Megatron tries hard not to roll his optics again. He fails. A very small part of him has, alarmingly, started to take an interest in the verbal sparring with this ludicrously insouciant being. Megatron has not debated anything with anyone who was not an enemy or a subordinate in recent archival memory. The wheels of his tightly-held control are slowly but surely coming off, eased by the many dizzying pingbacks to his sensornet that he is, in fact, nowhere near Cybertron, nowhere near the last battle he remembers, and is currently on a vessel headed at light speed towards, apparently, the <i>Well</i>, home of every spark past, present and future. </p>
<p>“I think I have a right to be confused and upset- ” he points out drily. “-  if I’m <i>dead</i>. But it clearly hasn’t affected my rationalization unit, since we have been arguing on the finer points of why I am here and who you are. And what,” he snorts, “Do you only want things when you’re happy? One could argue that one wants more things when one is not. As to whether or not you’re real, you seem to be in my mind regardless. You might as well make yourself useful while you’re present.” </p>
<p>He manages to declare this last quite imperiously, as if Megatron doesn’t really care one way or another that he’s apparently propositioning a mech he’s just met - mostly to avenge the insult of being refused, of course. That being said, the flawless gleam of Rodimus’ paneling is starting to make Megatron’s fingers itch, as is the remembered weight of the smaller mech sitting close, and the sweet metallic smell of his armor. </p>
<p>Over thousands of years, Megatron has resisted Starscream, alluring and poisonous. Even Soundwave, loyal and graceful. But here in this foggy state of being, Megatron is finding it very hard to remember why he hadn’t ever given in to his baser desires. There is certainly no reason not to give in <i>now</i>, with someone who doesn’t know him and who isn’t caught in the complex web of power and politics that Megatron has spun.</p>
<p>Rodimus has stared unblinkingly at him throughout, looking absolutely gobsmacked. By the time Megatron utters the word ‘useful’, though, a small smile is curving the corner of that mobile mouth. </p>
<p>It’s a real smile, all humor and warmth, directed only at him. Megatron tries not to think on the fact that he hasn’t a single example of that in his recent archival memory either. Something tight eases in his center.</p>
<p>“You’re very persuasive, Megs,” Rodimus says after a while. “Not that I was ever a rule-loving mech to begin with but- frag. You’re stubborn and grumpy and big. It’s kinda hot.” He moves even closer, and then carefully, with some last hesitation, drapes himself over Megatron again - the size difference between them means that he has to open his legs wide to nudge them over Megatron’s thighs. He raises his arms and hooks his hands loosely behind Megatron’s neck cables, leaning back a little to look at Megatron with that smile still on his face. “To be honest, it’s also been a while since someone’s been interested despite the whole dealing-with-being-offlined thing and not knowing whether I really exist or not, so your attention is really, hmm, I gotta say, it really is quite valida- ”</p>
<p>Megatron feels the invisible hold on his frame loosen with an almost-imperceptible click. He surges forward, cuts off Rodimus’ rambling by crushing their lips together, and then the searing heat of Rodimus’ frame and the answering moan into Megatron’s mouth makes him forget everything else.</p>
<p>His hands land - finally - on the tempting curves of Rodimus’ thighs, and sweep upward so he can drag his thumbs over sleek pelvic armor. Rodimus squirms closer with a muffled hungry noise and presses himself harder to Megatron, yanking Megatron’s head down to kiss him deeper. The clasp of his arms tighten and his thighs squeeze at the same time, dragging their panels hard against each other. </p>
<p>Charge sparks and roars through all of Megatron’s circuitry. He hasn’t used his interfacing equipment for so long that the sudden torrent of electric fire in those components almost <i>hurts</i>. His fingers spasm around Rodimus’ waist as the flame-red mech dips his helm to nose into Megatron’s neck cables, the clever flick of his glossa against the warm metal chased with first a testing nip, then a hard bite. Embarrassingly, unthinkably, Megatron can’t do anything but clutch at him and groan, holding this living and twisting lick of fire above him and against him as it roars heat into every line.</p>
<p>“Been a long time for you too, huh?” Rodimus is murmuring against Megatron’s chassis now, tracing the whorls on the chestplate with teasing fingers. “Don’t know how you want it? We don’t have much time, so maybe- ” he slides smoothly to the ground between Megatron’s legs, taps on Megatron’s panels, then looks up at him with that tiny smirk again and those shining darkened optics, “- open up and let’s see?”</p>
<p>His panels are moving aside before Megatron can give any conscious input, and then Rodimus’ mouth is hot and wet on his spike as two slim fingers press into his soaking valve, dipping in, out, and curving experimentally. A thumb strokes across his swollen nodes, and it’s all Megatron can do not to cry out as the agonizing bliss rips through every single one of his sensors. His fingers are clenching down so hard on the arms of the chair that he’s vaguely surprised he hasn’t broken anything yet.  </p>
<p>“Responsive,” Rodimus’ voice is husky as he pulls off, smug in a way that makes Megatron torn between wanting to hit the mech or pulling him up to kiss the arrogance off those pale faceplates. “Must’ve been a <i>really</i> long time.” He chuckles, which makes the urge to smack him win out and if Megatron could only unlock his fingers from their death-grip he would do it - </p>
<p>Rodimus’ fingers spread him open as that unforgivably clever thumb swipes around and over his nodes again, and Megatron bites back the howl just a second too late to stop the self-satisfied flare in Rodimus’ field. His charge has ramped up so high that static is <i>bleeding</i> across his visual input, which is why it takes him several too-long moments to realize that Rodimus has stood up and is tugging at him, urging Megatron out of the chair with deceptively strong hands and turning him around, bending him over so that he can prop his forearms on the back of it. There is a snatch of a murmur behind him as his left knee is coaxed up onto the seat, the position all but widely exposing his array, “ - always wanted to do something in the Captain’s chair- ” and then he forgets words again as that talented hand returns, thumbing across the head of his spike and rubbing into the slit there. A warm wet glossa licks into him, laving his valve greedily from top to bottom. </p>
<p>Sparks are fritzing under his armor, all his plating loose and flaring to let off this burning heat and <i>want</i>, and Megatron can’t even remember what he was waspish about. Guttural groans are spilling from his lips and he’s rocking back to take as much of that exploring, twisting glossa as he can, and then forwards into the welcoming, slick fist around his spike.</p>
<p>“You taste like laserfire,” Rodimus’ voice is a distant purr. “Look at you, all scorched steel and destruction. Open and <i>dripping</i> for my spike.”</p>
<p>Energon floods Megatron’s lines and makes his faceplates hot. Will Rodimus never stop talking? He’s going to shut this mech up if it’s the last thing he does, and his shaking hands flex on the back of the chair where they’ve been clinging like a lifeline. Yes, he’s going to turn around, and he’s going to put Rodimus in his damned slagging place. At some point. When his legs have stopped <i>trembling</i>.</p>
<p>Something blunt, hot and hard nudges at the opening to his valve. </p>
<p>Megatron’s hips jerk back before he can stop himself, pushing the intrusion deeper inside. Through the hazy veil of lust that has descended, he manages to feel vindicated at the long, low moan that leaves Rodimus’ vocalizer. Then hands are suddenly squeezing hard enough to dent on his hips, stopping Megatron from repeating the movement that sends charge skittering across every line.</p>
<p>“Are you- is it- ” Rodimus’ hold has gentled almost immediately, cradling rather than seizing, although his voice shows the strain of keeping himself still. “Feels alright?”</p>
<p><i>Yes</i>, Megatron tries to say, but nothing comes out. His head is bowed over his arms, and he manages another shallow jerk of his hips, sliding Rodimus further in by degrees, and the other mech’s spike feels so impossibly hot and thick in Megatron’s long-unused valve that he gives up on trying to speak and nods instead.</p>
<p>Rodimus huffs then, and the breathless laughter is back in his voice when he says, “Good,” right before he pulls out only to thrust back in, hard. </p>
<p>Megatron can’t stop the gasp as he claws at the chair, pushing fervently backwards against that glorious slick slide. His entire perception narrows to the twisting, spiraling arousal in his core, of being split apart again and again. Rodimus’ spike pounds deeply and relentlessly inside, igniting all the nodes ringing the opening with sublime pressure. His hips are working in a sharp staccato rhythm, and there are stifled moans mixing with the too-loud reverberation of heated fuel rushing through Megatron’s processor. Above everything is the sound of their armor, scraping and grinding and clanging together obscenely.</p>
<p>One hand leaves Megatron’s hip, fumbles about, and then gropes further down as Rodimus presses himself against Megatron’s back. All of a sudden there are fingers sliding slickly around where they are joined, stroking and swirling teasingly in the hot mess of lubricant between them. As they glance across sensitized and engorged nodes, Megatron has to choke back a whimper, and all the while he cannot stop himself from bucking back blindly, seeking more. He can barely see - barely <i>think</i>.</p>
<p>Rodimus has slowed his thrusting to an uneven, languorous rhythm, and a softly vibrating sound breaks through the haze of Megatron’s groggy awareness. Rodimus is humming lazily - of <i>course</i>, that conceited, offensively gorgeous mech has to pause to do something so <i>inane</i> - and his lips press against Megatron’s plating as his fingers move to play around the base of Megatron’s spike, pumping and driving him to fuel-curdling distraction. He musters himself to snarl at Rodimus to stop dawdling, to get back to business, and then those thrice-damned fingers slide down and flick across his throbbing nodes.</p>
<p>All the air leaves his vents in a whoosh of scalding heat. A long thin whine escapes the shreds of his control.</p>
<p>Megatron can just about feel the pleased smile curving against his back, and it would be enraging, it would be, if Megatron wasn’t now rocking desperately onto those toying digits for more. He’s so close and he just needs something harder, something to tip him over -</p>
<p>Rodimus pauses for a spark-stopping second. And then <i>pinches</i>. </p>
<p>Charge explodes across every circuit and the cry rips out of Megatron’s vocalizer before he can stop it. He shudders and jerks as the overload crests over him, visual feed fizzling out completely. His struts, for all their reinforced thickness, seem to turn to gel. Distantly, he can hear his own harsh panting, interspersed with shivering little moans he can’t seem to silence, and he shakes and shakes and doesn’t know if he’s pushing back onto Rodimus or away from him. He can feel a new rush of lubricant, warm as it streaks wantonly down his thighs.</p>
<p>Then Rodimus’ spike is plunging hard and steady into him again, taking up the rhythm it’d abandoned before, and Megatron knows that the moans spilling from his own vocalizer are increasing in volume and intensity but he can’t stop himself. He’s slamming himself back onto that hot, rigid spike, writhing and gasping as it sinks into him over and over again, charge sparking deliciously against every internal sensor, and then Rodimus thrusts almost violently before stiffening and groaning and dragging his hands hard down Megatron’s sides. Megatron can feel the hot bursts of transfluid coating the quivering walls of his valve in spurts, feel the twitches of the spike still buried deep inside him, and then Rodimus is sliding out and tottering back and all but collapsing against the nearest console. </p>
<p>Megatron has to pry his fingers loose from the back of the chair one by one. If he sags immediately into the much-abused seat like a melted puddle of metal, there is mercifully no one else around to witness it.</p>
<p>It takes a while and no small effort before he can reboot his optics. Rodimus is staring dazedly at him, all of him, gaze trailing from Megatron’s pedes up to his helm and lingering on his array. Megatron can feel the sticky evidence of their coupling trickling out, and strangely, can’t bring himself to care. Unbidden, the words pop into his vocalizer, and Megatron says it before he can think.</p>
<p>“Finally shut you up.”</p>
<p>He disregards that it comes out more hoarse then he would have liked; it still counts as a minor victory.</p>
<p>Rodimus’ focus whips up to Megatron’s face. Then unbelievably, again, he starts to laugh. </p>
<p>He laughs so hard that optical cleanser leaks down across his faceplates, and for some inexplicable reason the sound of it is far less grating than it was before. Megatron can feel the corner of his own mouth curving up in response, and he’s so sated that he doesn’t even bother to hide it. They continue looking at each other and there is an odd softness now in Rodimus’ light blue optics that Megatron can’t decipher, a new hesitance to the flame-red mech’s demeanor as he pulls himself upright and gingerly closes his panels.</p>
<p>The console chirps.</p>
<p>Megatron suddenly notices the ship has slowed. He tears his optics away from Rodimus to look past him, out the large windows, and for a moment he can’t see anything beyond specks of gently dancing lights. Then he looks up, and up, and <i>up</i>, and it takes several nanokliks for his overload-addled logic unit to process what is before him. </p>
<p>It is a gigantic, swirling pillar that reaches higher than he can follow, a slow-turning maelstrom of mottled dark blue clouds so massive that it dwarfs the ship. It looks almost insubstantial, and the tiny lights continue winking in and out like facets of crystal under a low glow. </p>
<p>It stretches out infinitely, terrifying and <i>beautiful</i>, and it has been so long since Megatron has thought that of anything that he lets himself be transfixed by it.</p>
<p>“...Right,” Rodimus’ voice, subdued, is loud in the silence. “Guess we made it.”</p>
<p>After a beat, he steps towards Megatron and murmurs something. When Megatron looks down at himself again, he’s clean, dry and free of all paint transfers. His panels are locked. Not a single trace of their interfacing has been left behind. </p>
<p>It might as well have been something that Megatron only imagined, much like everything else he has encountered since waking in this strange place, if not for the lingering warmth of recent satisfaction coursing through his lines. And the indelible, clear memory of Rodimus humming softly against his back. Megatron files it away in his long-term archives, even though he probably won’t have those for much longer if anything that Rodimus has said is to be believed.</p>
<p>“If my spark is remade,” he asks carefully, not looking at the other mech, who stills, “Will I see you again?”</p>
<p>From the corner of his visual feed, he can see Rodimus watching him. Those sinfully nimble yellow fingers curl into loose fists, scratching lightly against the palms. </p>
<p>“I’m not sure,” Rodimus says at last. “It’s not my call around here. Maybe I can follow, maybe I can’t. Or,” and he gives a lopsided grin, though it appears a bit weak, “Maybe you’ll offline again before I make it over. If you do, no promises, but I’ll try to pick you up on time next time.”</p>
<p>Megatron nods once, short and sharp. He wants to order, <i>If you make it, come find me</i>, but those words feel too much like a promise of his own, and Megatron has never been in the habit of making promises he can’t keep. So instead, he clears his intake, pushes down on an unfamiliar stirring of regret, and commits one last look at Rodimus, intoxicatingly bright and warm, a glimmer of flame against the darkness both inside and outside.</p>
<p>“Guide me back, then,” he rasps finally, looking up at the Well. He steels himself against its terrible magnificence, its inevitability. “Guide me home.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>In the 3-sentence continuation of this, Megatron goes back first as Galvatron and then turns back into Megatron somehow/somewhere along the way, Rodimus "descends" into the living universe when Hot Rod receives the Matrix, and they reunite on The Lost Light and live happily ever after.</p>
<p>Bonus reader points for those who notice what typical TF Sticky term was left out ;)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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